The matter decided, there was nothing else to do than to head to the Royal. Valérie took care to wear a white hat with a veil in case she should be recognized. She did not want anyone to know she’d gone there.
Once she arrived, she was quickly ushered into Hector’s dressing room. She noted the profusion of objects in there. Props, books, and the large desk dominating the space. Behind it sat Hector. She closed the door and he rose as she walked in. His smile turned into a frown.
“You expected someone else, I suppose,” she said as she took off her hat. This, along with the veil, would shield her. They were not of the same height, but casual observers would assume it was Antonina Beaulieu, not Valérie, who had visited. After all, she’d given that name at the entrance.
“I did. What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I’ve come to talk about Antonina.”
Valérie tossed her hat onto a chair upholstered in crimson velvet, a pattern of golden vines upon it. She ran a hand carelessly upon his desk, picking up a black box and looking at its contents. A beetle lay inside. This was so indicative of Antonina’s taste that it immediately confirmed Luc’s suspicions, and Valérie dropped the box as if she’d been scalded by boiling water.
She pressed her hands together.
“What about Antonina?” Hector said. His voice was hard as granite. But she’d expected this. She’d expected to meet his resistance. And she knew she could move him.
“She has a suitor. Luc Lémy. Young, handsome, charming, well connected. I think they’d make a lovely couple.”
“What seems to be the problem, then?”
“The problem is you,” Valérie said, her voice light, like crystal shining under a beam of sunlight.
Hector was leaning on his desk. In the privacy of his dressing room, he’d taken off his jacket; thus he stood in a gray vest and his white shirt, the top two buttons undone, no cravat. The casualness of his attire reminded her of their time in Frotnac when formalities were a distant consideration.
If Antonina had had a chance to see him like this… Valérie could understand her reluctance with Luc. Hector was terribly attractive.
“She’s very young, you see. I think she’s gotten it into her head that you might marry her one day, despite everything, and this holds her back from opening her heart to Luc,” she said, measuring him with her gaze. “I am certain you’d want her to be happy. For that reason I’d ask that you cease speaking to her. It can’t be that difficult, can it?”
“How do you know I’ve been speaking with her?”
“Hector,” Valérie said, smiling, “do you take me for a fool?”
“If Nina does not want to see me anymore, she can let me know herself,” Hector said, and he sat down again.
He began to scribble on a piece of paper, their meeting apparently at an end. His irritation only amused Valérie more. It always had. Like a match against the box, she’d caused the flame to bloom and enjoyed the ensuing fire.
“I understand your resistance. You’d be giving up a toy. But I’m sure you can find more amusing pursuits.”
Valérie rounded his desk and took ahold of another black box with a beetle inside. This time the sight of it did not upset her. It was but a lifeless thing, devoid of any power.
Like Antonina.
“Last summer, you wanted me to run away with you. That option is out of the question, but I believe I could entertain your company a few times,” she said.
Valérie let the box slide from her fingers onto the desk. It landed next to a silver letter opener.
Hector frowned, his attention focused on the box, his eyes narrowed. “You find yourself suddenly in need of a lover, Valérie?”
“I never find myself in need of anyone, Hector. I am merely offering certain terms.”
A tryst or two should be enough, she thought. She did not intend for it to amount to more than that. Valérie saw no point in a long affair, not when it was weighed against the danger it entailed. But a meeting, perhaps a couple, if it might pry him off Antonina, seemed a fair exchange. There was much to gain with Antonina’s marriage.
And there was also the personal satisfaction it would bring Valérie. Hector was hers. He had never belonged to another, nor would he ever. Whatever it took, he was hers.
“Do you think I am a dog to whom you can throw scraps?” he asked in a low voice.
He was attempting, she knew, to appear cool and distant. But it was an act, like his performances in the theater. The line his mouth traced was not born of irritation alone. She knew him better than he knew himself.
“I am Valérie Véries, and these are no scraps,” she told him.
